


A Well Trained Dog

by refurinn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Harry's last name is Durham, M/M, Maurice!AU, and I am unsure of his actual last name, because he is Clive, now with an additional sexy chapter, or an attempt at one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refurinn/pseuds/refurinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maurice AU, featuring a nervous Mycroft and a determined Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the very kind misssnowwhitepink on tumblr, who prompted: "I would like to read an Mystrade/Maurice!AU. With Mycroft as Maurice and Lestrade as Alec ;)". I wrote this whilst on my lunchbreak, hope it's somewhat what you wanted? I know I deviated immensely from the novel, I'm happy to write it again, if you'd prefer something else. I know you asked for some sexiness, but I'm afraid I chickened out. I would be willing to write a sexy continuation if you'd like (in the safety of my own home), just say the word.

‘Do you need any help, sir?’

Mycroft jumped. ‘No,’ he spluttered quickly, turning sharply on his heel. He calmed himself, flexing his fingers on the handle of his umbrella and smiling kindly at the young gamekeeper. ‘No thank you, Lestrade,’ he amended.

‘Just give us a yell if you do,’ Lestrade said, but made no move to leave Mycroft’s presence. He stood with slightly off posture, fingers curling absently at the worn material of his trousers. He returned Mycroft’s smile, eyes bright and looking almost startlingly gleeful. It put Mycroft on edge, wondering if there was some sort of mockery being played out at his own expense. Surely Lestrade had no right to look that pleased at the prospect of another day serving the Durhams?

‘Yes,’ Mycroft began slowly, growing increasingly uncertain of himself. ‘I will.’

He nodded his head once and started off back toward the house, umbrella tip tapping along next to his foot. He didn’t look back until he was sure he could hear Lestrade’s heavy footsteps churning up the gravel. Lestrade was racing in the opposite direction, toward the gardens, coat flapping and cap held firmly on his head with one hand. Mycroft slowed his steps but did not allow himself to stop, denying that he should like to keep sight of Lestrade until the distant figure was swallowed into the scenery.

When he entered the house again, it was to find Harry sitting comfortably by the empty fire grate, newspaper held open over his knees.

‘There you are, old chap,’ he said jovially upon Mycroft’s appearance. ‘I was thinking we could go for a walk, later in the evening. Perhaps take to the fields with a rifle, should the mood strike us. Speaking of, you haven’t happened to have seen Lestrade today, have you? He’s made himself rather sparse around me lately, I must say.’

Mycroft stood still a moment, thinning his lips. ‘I haven’t seen him,’ he said softly, not quite sure why he felt the need to repudiate. He straightened out his cuffs self-consciously, taking the excuse to look away from Harry. ‘A walk would be lovely.’

Harry hummed and turned back to his newspaper.

\--

The mood, as it turned out, did not strike Harry as afternoon fell, thus Lestrade did not accompany them on their stroll. He hovered outside the front of the house, before they left, watching as they tugged on gloves and coats. Mycroft had thought it to be rather odd but Harry seemed not to notice.

‘We won’t require your presence,’ he told Lestrade on his way past.

‘Is there anything you do require, then?’ Lestrade called after him, wringing his cap in his hands. ‘Sir?’ he added to Mycroft.

‘Perhaps see if there’s anything Ms Durham has for you to do,’ Harry said over his shoulder, and tittered amusedly as Lestrade nodded quickly and loped away. ‘Like a well trained dog, that one,’ he told Mycroft absently. ‘Come on.’

Harry had much to say about very little as they walked, pointing out the odd species of flower here, the distant childhood memory played out over there. Mycroft made sure to murmur his acknowledgement at intervals, although his mind remained mostly elsewhere. He took the time to study Harry’s profile, compare it to the face he had grown so fond of during their university years. Harry did not seem to notice, adverse as he was these days to meet Mycroft’s gaze. He wondered what it was Harry had felt for him during those years, when he would sit close by Mycroft’s side and swear his feelings true. He wondered if they had been as strong as Mycroft’s own, if they had even been in the same vein of sentiment. Mycroft supposed perhaps not, if Harry’s recent revelations were anything to go by. Perhaps it _was_ wrong to feel such things. This was, of course, the common preconception. Mycroft had never paid all that much attention to it, certainly not believed it for himself, but now…

Was it odd, that he felt this way? Certainly, he should think, but did it make him appear odd? Could people look at him and immediately know there was something different, something not quite right with that young man? Perhaps there was some sort of barrier between his kind and theirs, an indication of sorts - although Harry looked the same as he ever had, weathered skin withstanding. Probably it was nothing, Mycroft thought glumly to himself. Probably he was making a great big fuss over nothing, analysing something that was not even there. And yet Lestrade… Lestrade looked at him like he was something different, and that is what had Mycroft on edge in the first place. Lestrade looked at him like the gamekeeper knew something, like there was some sort of secret they shared. He smiled at Mycroft often. Had a frightening scowl that emerged in the presence of Harry’s sister, but was never once aimed in Mycroft’s direction. No, Mycroft received only toothy grins and tilted heads and a genuine sense of pleasure radiating off the other man. If Lestrade knew… knew that Mycroft was different… then why did he…

‘And as it turns out, she wasn’t the hostess at all! In fact, no one at all even knew of her!’ Harry finished with gusto, huffing out a laugh and glancing – quickly, briefly – in Mycroft’s direction. Mycroft smiled amicably.

‘I’m a bit tired, Harry’, he told his friend. ‘Would you mind if we turned back?’

‘Not at all,’ Harry said immediately, frowning to himself. ‘Do you think yourself ill?’

Mycroft turned to look at him, and Harry very intentionally kept his sight stationed forward.

‘Just tired,’ Mycroft assured him with a sigh.

\--

Mycroft noticed the ladder as soon as he retired to his quarters. The top of it poked just above his windowsill, and Mycroft took a long moment to ponder its purpose before biting his lip and clasping the edges of the out-turned window. He looked down over the darkened grounds, tossing up a thousand possibilities in his head and calculating the result of each. Eventually, he let his hands fall down to his sides and moved swiftly over to his bed. The window remained wide open.

He tossed and turned in a fitful doze until the moon rose to its highest point in the sky and began to fall again. Then he rose to his feet, frustrated with himself. He hesitated over by the window, trying to determine whether it was the sleeplessness that had him riled up or the odd sense of disappointment the open window invoked. Making a firm decision, he tugged on his shoes and stole down the stairs. He picked up his coat at the front door, sliding it over his thin pyjamas before stepping outside. It was darker than it had seemed upstairs, and Mycroft floundered for a moment before heading off in one direction, not sure what he wanted his destination to be.

He rounded the house once and then came to a stop outside his own window, letting his gaze wander up the high ladder until he was staring at the fluttering white curtains.

‘I was going to move it,’ said a sudden voice from behind him, and Mycroft tensed, but did not jump this time.

‘I don’t mind, I had just… wondered.’ Mycroft slid his cold hands into the pockets of his coat, noticing Lestrade’s own heavy coat buttoned up over his chest. He wondered if the man wore pyjamas beneath, or just another of his work shirts. Perhaps he wore nothing beneath it at all. Mycroft felt his face flush hotly in the cool air.

‘Wondered…’ Lestrade repeated curiously. His face suddenly snapped into a mischievous grin. ‘Wondered if someone might scramble up in the night and steal into your quarters? You can shut your windows against that, sir.’

‘I…’ Mycroft paused, hovering on the line between humour and honesty. ‘Is that what you’ve come here to do?’ he asked at last. Lestrade swallowed visibly.

‘Not at all, sir, would never be so crude as to do that. I came to…’ he gestured out toward the ladder. ‘Take it away, see?’

‘At this time of night?’ Mycroft countered, amused.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Lestrade defended, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. ‘Judging by your being here I would wager it’s not an uncommon problem.’

‘Relax, Lestrade. I am only jesting.’

‘You can call me Greg,’ Lestrade said suddenly, turning large eyes on Mycroft.

‘I wouldn’t – I…’

‘I would never deign to call you by your given name, but you can call me by mine,’ Lestrade continued.

He looked very young in the moonlight. His skin looked smooth and pale, despite Mycroft’s knowledge of how tanned the sun had made it. His usual cap was amiss, hair tousled and hanging over his forehead. It was a touch too long, Mycroft thought to himself, a few of the strands curling around Lestrade’s ear.

‘Greg,’ Mycroft conceded. The name felt too intimate on his tongue, too close to an emotion he didn’t yet care to examine.

‘Do you want to… take a walk?’ Lestrade asked, curiously awkward in a way Mycroft would never before have described of him.

‘I shouldn’t,’ Mycroft began, ‘it’s late. I must be getting back to the house.’ He watched Lestrade blink and try to maintain his soft smile, although it petered into something of a straight line. ‘You could… come?’ Mycroft offered, fumbling to add, ‘to the kitchens, for a spot of tea.’

‘Yeah,’ Lestrade said quickly, shuffling a bit closer. He stopped abruptly, as though only just realising, and Mycroft glanced down at where his hand was very near Mycroft’s coat. ‘That would be great.’

\--

They whispered well into early morning, until their forgotten tea was as cold as their feet. Lestrade leaned across the table on his elbows, asking Mycroft every trivial question that came to mind and seeming endlessly fascinated with each answer. He, in turn, answered a few questions of Mycroft’s own – little tidbits about Lestrade’s family that soon turned into fond anecdotes that had Mycroft having to hush Lestrade more than once, even as his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

When Lestrade at last peered out the window at the night sky and declared it time to get back to bed, Mycroft stifled the unexpected disappointment inside his chest. He nodded his agreement, escorting Lestrade to the front door and standing awkwardly, the same as Lestrade seemed to. Lestrade licked his lips slowly, hesitated, and then chuckled lightly.

‘Goodnight, sir,’ he said.

‘Goodnight Greg,’ Mycroft replied, even as Lestrade trudged across the gravel, back to his own quarters. Lestrade raised a hand in a small wave which Mycroft returned before closing the door firmly. He stood with his hands against the wood, thinking that he would need to remove his coat before heading back upstairs but unable to bring himself to move as a relatively unfamiliar emotion washed through him. He had thought Lestrade might ask to stay, which was ridiculous, of course it was ridiculous. It was more than that, it was unheard of! It was silly, silly, silly.

And yet.

Mycroft’s shoulders began to cramp, but his hands remained where they were. He shouldn’t expect these things of Lestrade, shouldn’t assume callous things about a good man. And Lestrade _was_ a good man, he was gentle and kind-hearted and surprisingly clever. He wasn’t… he wasn’t like Mycroft. He wasn’t one of _his kind_. He shouldn’t try to transform Lestrade in his mind, shouldn’t—

But Greg’s face, laughing openly and leaning forward into Mycroft’s space, hanging on to his every word…

—assume.

Mycroft lowered his arms, shrugged his coat from his shoulders and hung it up. In his room, he closed the window, took his shoes off, and opened it again. It was a warm night, he reasoned with himself, slipping back beneath the covers of his bed.

\--

Mycroft spent the next day feeling uneasy, finding his attention span for Harry’s mindless stories shorter than usual. He refused to let his mind settle on anything in particular, lest he have to analyse unwelcome feelings, and thus found himself drifting a lot throughout the day. He told himself it was only happenstance that he happened to successfully avoid Lestrade, feeling a peculiar sense of embarrassment when he caught brief sight of a dark cap and darker curls.

He declared a headache over supper and retired early to his room, shutting his window tightly and resting in bed with a book so his mind could not dwell. He fell asleep with it still in his hands, waking sharply in the morning from a dream he could not remember. He spent most of that day inside the house, and the next as well. Harry commented on it only once, but otherwise seemed content to sit and discuss politics with Mycroft in the drawing room. When Harry left the house on business, Mycroft sat in the sunroom with Harry’s sister and watched her paint a beautiful rendition of the landscape, and when she also left, he turned back to his book. When that was finished, he lay flat on his back on his bed and watched as the shadows crept across the ceiling, further and further as darkness took reign of the sky.

He left his room for supper, feeling suddenly exhausted, and upon returning stared hard at the top of the ladder before opening his window again. In his bed, he slept soundly.

\--

Mycroft wasn’t sure what had woken him. Wasn’t sure if it was a result of his harsh breathing or the other way around. There was a scuffle from outside.

 _He’s come_ , he thought frantically, sitting up. _No, no, foolish man, of course not. It is just a creature of the night. An owl_ , he amended, trying to erase the previous thought from his mind.

And yet it was with little surprise that he noted a familiar cap pop up over the windowsill, forehead and bright eyes that following. He blinked slowly, feeling calm despite his chest heaving. He tried to regulate his breathing, but Lestrade was over the windowsill, now, unlacing muddy boots and tugging them off. He spared a brief glance in Mycroft’s direction, looking nervous and almost contrite before turning back to his task with more resolve. His coat fell on top of his boots, cap on top of that. He slid his belt from his trousers and started on the buttons of his shirt. Mycroft’s breath caught.

Lestrade turned to him sharply, fingers paused over only the third button. He came to sit by Mycroft’s side, nervousness suddenly gone, and fixed Mycroft with a determined stare.

‘Don’t avoid me,’ he said firmly. He grasped briefly at Mycroft’s wrist, let go hurriedly and gripped his hand instead. ‘Don’t show me kindness like you did and then nothing at all. I thought,’ he set his jaw tightly. ‘I thought you could be a friend.’

 _A friend_ , Mycroft thought warmly. _I have always wanted a friend_. He paused to consider if they shared the same meaning of the word, stared hard at Lestrade and was alarmed when Lestrade stared hard back. No turning away, no grim smiles and wary eyes. No memories of a past he wished did not exist. Just… just something. Something fierce. Something Harry had never once looked at him with.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, and found he had nothing he felt he could say.

Lestrade kissed him.

Lestrade bent over, let go of Mycroft’s hand to cup his cheek instead, and kissed him. His lips were not soft, and Mycroft found he enjoyed that. His fingertips were calloused and hard, scent undeniably masculine. His tongue swiped at Mycroft’s lips in a way that no woman Mycroft had ever met would dare, and Mycroft drew in a sudden breath, bringing his hands up to clutch at the material over Lestrade’s chest. In the space of a second, Lestrade became Greg, and Greg became more than Mycroft had ever hoped Harry might be.

‘Don’t ignore what I would do for you,’ Greg said upon leaning back, hand still firm against Mycroft’s cheek.

‘What would you do for me?’ Mycroft asked.

‘Anything.’

Greg’s face was solemn. He bent forward again and dragged his lips down Mycroft’s jaw, smoothed his hands over Mycroft’s shoulders and ribs and then held him tight.

‘You must know, sir, I’d do anything for you.’

‘Mycroft,’ Mycroft breathed, wanting to close his eyes but somehow afraid to. He swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing, and Greg nosed down his neck to kiss beneath it. ‘A friend may call me Mycroft.’

Greg mouthed the name against his skin, nuzzling like a contented animal.

 _A well trained dog_ , Mycroft thought absently, and patted a hand along his friend’s soft hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, the sexy continuation - and I use that word lightly. It was my first attempt at writing a sex scene and thus... it turned out having very little actual sex in it. It's my prudish nature. This was written - again - for misssnowwhitepink.

Mycroft swallowed again as Greg’s mouth moved lower, then lower again, rough fingers coming up to pluck at the buttons of Mycroft’s sleep shirt. His throat felt too dry, tongue heavy and foreign in his mouth. He wasn’t prepared for this, didn’t know if he was yet ready for this to happen. Oh, but he had _dreamed_ of it. Truly, he had. He had lain in his bed at night, thinking of a friend to perhaps have one day, a body to share, to touch. Those images alone were enough to get Mycroft flushed and itching in his clothes. This was… this was…

Greg was moving, folding his knees beneath him. His fingers were still at work, and Mycroft couldn’t categorise the feel of them, the cool air of the room touching his bare chest, over the feel of Greg’s mouth - hot and damp, trailing upward, again, up to his face, up to his forehead. It felt cool against the heat of Mycroft’s forehead. It was too hot, his throat too dry.

‘You’re tensing up something fierce, sir.’

‘I’m—‘ Mycroft sucked in a deep breath, ‘—quite fine, thank you. Just…’

Greg stopped suddenly, leaning back and laughing. His cheekbones lifted right up to his eyes when he grinned, Mycroft noted through hazy eyes. It made him look mischievous, gleeful, like a young boy with a secret. Greg’s front teeth scraped over his bottom lip, abruptly nervous.

‘Are you okay with this?’ he asked. ‘I thought… is this what you want?’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft said with a sharp nod. He sat himself up a little straighter against the wall, pushing pillows out of the way. Greg automatically inched closer to keep his knees in contact with Mycroft’s leg. Mycroft glanced down at his stomach briefly, exposed under open shirt tails – _it looks fine, Mycroft, nothing wrong with it. It’s okay, it’s okay_ – and looked back to Greg. He smiled, weakly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve not had much experience in this line. Or indeed…. any line.’

‘Not with anyone?’ Greg mouth was still upturned in a grin, eyebrows high on his forehead. Mycroft shook his head in response. To Mycroft’s horror, Greg began to chuckle again, stopping quickly upon Mycroft’s affronted frown. ‘I’m sorry,’ Greg puffed out, ‘but that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Just look at you! Mother Mary in heaven, look at you.’ The last tapered into a low rumble, Greg’s hands creeping to dance over Mycroft’s abdomen. The muscles twitched rapidly under his touch, Mycroft tensing his shoulders in an attempt to quench the urge to squirm away. It felt remarkable, truly, but Mycroft had not before felt a skin that was not own come into contact with those muscles. It startled him to realise just how sensitive he was to the touch. Greg adjusted the pressure from inquisitive prodding to broad swipes of his large, calloused hands.

‘Are you tense because of me?’ he asked, concern evident.

‘No,’ Mycroft assured him. Was this normal? Surely this couldn’t be normal. ‘It’s good. Perhaps… perhaps I am ticklish?’

Greg smiled gently at him. ‘You’re sensitive. That’s okay, a lot of people are. I myself had a lot of trouble with my knees when I was younger, couldn’t have anyone go near them without having a laughing fit. It gets easier.’ The smile suddenly turned into a wicked grin. ‘I’ll help you make it easier.’ With his touches turned flat and light, Mycroft felt his abdomen muscles begin to relax. ‘Repetition is the key.’

‘I don’t know what to do. With this. Situation,’ Mycroft warned feebly, feeling it only polite that he do so.

‘No matter. It’s very easy. Can I sit on you?’

‘Can you—‘ Mycroft stared dumbly at the gamekeeper, mind frozen between a hazy whiteness and solid thought. He watched with large eyes as Greg shuffled in close, bracing himself on his arms and sliding one knee over so he was settled comfortably on Mycroft’s hips.

‘There’s probably a fancier word,’ he said sheepishly.

‘I should call that a straddle,’ Mycroft said absently, mind half on his equestrian riding days and half worrying whether to place his hands on Greg’s hips or not.

‘There’s no right or wrong thing to do,’ Greg told him softly, leaning forward until they were almost chest to chest. ‘You can touch me if you want. You don’t have to.’

Mycroft’s reply was cut off by Greg’s mouth on his again, his mind too busy compartmentalising to notice his hands moving until they were digging tightly into Greg’s waist. Greg brought his hands up to cup Mycroft’s jaw again, holding firmly, and Mycroft revelled in the feeling of being caged in by a strong, masculine body.

‘Did you want me to come up that ladder?’ Greg asked when he at last pulled away, eyes darker than they were before, pushing Mycroft’s shirt from his shoulders and tugging his own hems over his head in one fluid motion.

‘I had hoped.’ Mycroft swallowed, self-conscious when he couldn’t seem to stop.

‘Good,’ Greg said, swinging his leg back over Mycroft to sit on the edge of the bed again. He bent down to where Mycroft couldn’t see and popped up a moment later with two socks in hand. 

‘Should I take my pants off?’ Mycroft asked, inching down to lie flat on his back and using a foot to push his covers down and away. Greg glanced at him with a surprised expression.

‘If you want.’

Mycroft frowned. He wasn’t quite sure he was following this progress. He had thought that was where they’d been heading. It did seem the normal route of things. ‘Are we not doing that?’ he asked slowly.

‘No, we are!’ Greg was quick to assure him. ‘Definitely, but I… I mean…’ he closed his eyes for a moment, smiling gently to himself. ‘Now you’ve got me a bit flustered. What I mean to mean to say is yes, but I don’t want to rush you or anything.’

‘Greg,’ Mycroft let his head tilt slightly, taking in the man before him. Tousled hair, the barest hint of stubble across his jaw, torso a solid plane of flesh. So very much what Mycroft hadn’t allowed himself to dream of in his early days, what he gave in and allowed himself to do at last after… after Harry. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, either, but we don’t exactly have all the time in the world, here. Night only has so many hours to it. We will have… additional times together.’

Greg looked at him with an oddly blank look for a moment, before the inevitable grin broke out and Mycroft was pulled into another kiss, a lot harder and wetter than the last one. Mycroft grasped his bare shoulders for balance, flexing his fingers around the hard muscle.

‘Turning the tables on me, you are.’ Greg groaned deep in his throat. ‘Yeah, next time. Time for everything, eventually. Okay.’ He stood quickly, yanking his trousers and pants down and hopping on one foot to rid them from his ankles. He straddled over Mycroft again, licked his lips once in an almost self-conscious gesture, and hooked his thumbs into Mycroft’s sleep trousers. Mycroft managed to lift his hips to assist him, distracted as he was by what was suddenly on display. Right there. Close enough to touch.

Greg finished pushing Mycroft’s pants off and shuffled around on his knees for a moment. Mycroft stared fascinated between their bodies until the gap was closed by Greg lying on top of him, calves on his calves, stomach on his stomach, braced elbows holding him just high enough to be able to kiss Mycroft properly. It was much like the previous, hot and intimate, but suddenly there were so many more sensations for Mycroft to catalogue. Skin all over his, so very warm, course hair and… and other things. Mycroft had never been an especially religious man but oh _Lord_ those others things felt good.

Greg was moving minutely, little shifts forward and backward that made Mycroft’s head spin. He had known, of course, logically, that this was a source of pleasure, but a gentleman is not one to touch. Erections come and go like the wind sometimes, and Mycroft had learnt from an early age that it was not something to ever be discussed. Best to put it from your mind and wait for its eventual wilt. He knew what function it served, had heard many a friend wax poetic about it behind closed doors back in his university days, but this was… feeling this now… this was something else.

A noise built in the back of Mycroft’s throat, and he had to turn his face suddenly in order to breathe. Greg increased his movements, turning his lips to mouth over the side of Mycroft’s face, down to his ear and behind and _Lord in Heaven_ , that was almost as good as the other thing.

‘Are you… mm, I’m sorry,’ Greg murmured into his skin. ‘I was going to—but, well, you said no time…’

‘It’s good,’ Mycroft breathed, surprised he could get the words out. ‘Don’t stop.’

Greg laughed and rested his forehead on Mycroft’s chest, the motion bringing Greg’s torso up a little higher so there was a bit of space between them. He reached between them with one hand and Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, his continuous swallowing back in full swing, expelling all his air through his nose.

‘Mmm,’ Greg told him, a slight incline at the end proposing it may have been a question.

‘Ahh,’ Mycroft replied. It must have been the right thing to say because Greg kissed his chest and sped up his hand movements.

Mycroft traced both his hands down Greg’s back, touching his spine carefully, making circular motions with his palms on his shoulders. When his hips began making abortive little movements of their own accord, he brought one hand up to cover his eyes in embarrassment, clutching Greg tight with the other.

‘Good,’ came Greg’s muffled voice. ‘Keep doing that. Mycroft.’

Mycroft’s name in that voice, that that deep male rumble. He kept his fingers over his eyes, but gave his hips free reign to do as they pleased. It felt… it felt… it wasn’t something his brain could currently dwell on, couldn’t describe, just… feeling… feeling… and it felt so…

Mycroft’s chest grew tight and he found himself arching up, something - _uh, too much, too much, can’t._

He felt very high up, all of a sudden. High off the ground, like gravity didn’t—

It’s all bright, so bright—

But his eyes are shut, shut, shut—

Greg—

Mycroft fell back, Greg falling with him, a numb weight. He swivelled his head slowly, astounded at how heavy it felt. When his hearing came back into focus, he realised Greg was making little shushing sounds to him, a hand stroking down his side, slowly, very slowly. A helpless feeling of joy bubbled up inside Mycroft’s chest and he beamed at the ceiling, honest to God beaming, shoulders shaking with pleased laughter. He rubbed his fingertips down Greg’s shoulders, trying to stop his laughter long enough to shush the gamekeeper back.

Greg’s shoulders began shaking as well and he lifted his head up, catching Mycroft’s gaze immediately and holding it tight. They fed off each other’s laughter for a long while, unable to cease in the face of the other’s glee.

‘Was that okay?’ Greg asked in a low voice when he was able to speak again.

‘Very nice,’ Mycroft affirmed, and it set Greg off again.

‘Very nice,’ he giggled, rolling to lie on his back next to Mycroft. ‘ _Very nice_. Oh, thank you _ever_ so much for that high praise, sir.’ He sat up suddenly, bending to kiss Mycroft’s mouth – once, twice – before reaching to the end of the bed for his discarded socks. He shot Mycroft an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry, but it’s all I’ve got,’ he said as he swiped one over Mycroft’s stomach. Mycroft watched curiously from behind half-lowered eyelids.

‘It’s not what I expected,’ he said in a calm voice as Greg turned the other sock on himself. Greg hummed his agreement. ‘But good.’ Mycroft felt tired, content and loose-limbed.

‘ _Very nice_ ,’ Greg teased, turning the socks inside out and tucking them into each other. ‘Better than my first time, definitely. That was a right disaster.’

‘You’ll have to tell me about it,’ Mycroft murmured, letting his eyelids sink a little further.

‘Oh, I will.’ He felt Greg’s lips touch his forehead again. ‘Next time. Will you leave your window open for me tomorrow? I’ll have to move the ladder after that, don’t want to raise suspicions or anything.’

Mycroft nodded drowsily.

‘Tomorrow, then.’ Greg’s mouth pressed to his briefly before the extra weight on the bed suddenly lifted. Mycroft opened his eyes in alarm.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, wincing at the panic in his voice.

‘Back to my room,’ Greg told him, eyebrows raised. ‘It wouldn’t do to be found in here, you know.’

‘I know that, but… well, the door is locked. It’s… there’s… would you stay? Just tonight. Please.’

Greg came to sit on the edge of the bed again, lifting Mycroft’s hand to kiss the knuckles. He stared at Mycroft for a long moment.

‘I meant it,’ he said softly, then swung his legs up onto the bed, reaching down to pull the covers up over both of them. He settled down next to Mycroft, stretching his arms and legs out and yawning like a contented cat. That done, he turned to drape half his limbs over Mycroft. ‘I’d do anything for you,’ he said again. 

Mycroft let the words chase him into a blissful sleep.


End file.
